The Late Show with Kate Corrigan
by LemurPirate
Summary: comicverse, Kate's POV. The second in my little series of... um... vignettes from the point of views of various Mignola characters. Kate stays up late and thinks about exactly why she's at the BPRD in the first place, and what keeps here there.


Disclaimer: Oh, please. You know this part. Do I really have to repeat myself? sighs Kate Corrigan, the BPRD and all other characters mentioned here belong to Mike Mignola, the current God of Comic Books and A Better Artist Than I Will Ever Be.

Spoilers: Um... VERY mild spoilers for Hollow Earth.

Notes: Once again, if you haven't read the comics, you probably won't get this at all, because Kate doesn't exist in the movie-verse. If you DO read the comics, though, you may catch some little in-jokes – the "no point in going home now" thing was from the short that told Johann's origin story; the thing about the chickens is a tossback to the very beginning of Hollow Earth.

All in all, I'm not very happy with this. I think a lot of it could be better. It's so... rambly. It seems kind of random, almost, but there's supposed to be a point to it. I feel like that point gets lost in the jumble of memories and side notes that is Kate's inner monologue.

However. In all honesty, it's not going to get much better. I've edited it twice already and there's more important things I should be doing. Like getting back to that comic book writer guy who wanted to do a collaboration (manic grin) I mean, fanfiction is fun and all, but this thing could actually wind up making me money. Then I could read other people's fanfic about MY work... and flame them to a crisp... no, I would never do that. It's just a funny thought. One of those things that's funnier in my little brain than it would be in real life.

Oh, yeah. And I plan on doing a series of these – little one-shots from each characters point of view. Abe is next. Movie fans beware; comic book Abe? COMPLETELY different animal.

The Late Show

How many times have I done this?

It's two am. Everyone else in the building is asleep, with the exception of Johann, who's off hiding somewhere. Abe is dreaming about water, Liz is dreaming about fire, Roger is dreaming about Gloacina, and I'm doing paperwork.

Paperwork: the bane of my existence.

Still, it's better than going home. I don't live at the Bureau HQ, I live in New York, and it's a long drive back to the big, empty apartment where I live all alone – even if I DID want to go, which I don't. Seems like I haven't been there in days – probably longer. I get lost in work sometimes. My office is cozy and warm, and I like the feeling of being surrounded by people I know, even if they are asleep. It seems like every night my mind goes through the same routine: "I'll just do a little bit more research... I'll only be here half an hour longer..." then half an hour later – "ok, maybe an hour more." then, "I'll finish this book first, then head home." And finally, in the wee hours of the morning, it's "Well, there's no point in going home now." I don't know why I keep this up. I might as well just admit that there's nowhere else I'd rather be than here.

The BPRD is my safe zone. Ironic, isn't it? The one place where I can be aware of all the bad things that are happening – all the potential apocalypses, all the creepy cultists threatening mass suicides, all the weird things happening with chickens (you'd be surprised at how many reports we get that involve chickens to some degree) – is the one place where I don't feel like I'm standing on a little platform, surrounded by cold, empty space.

I used to think that this sort of thing was all in my head – ghosts and goblins, wizards and vampires and fairies. I used to think that I was the only one who could see all the strange, explanation-defying things in the world, and man, was it ever lonely.

Then I met a man named Trevor Bruttenholm.

I was such a kid then. Really. In my second year of university at the school where I would eventually teach. I was so glad to be there, mostly because it wasn't home. Not that my mothers house had ever been very home-like, but that's a bitch of a different colour for a different day.

Anyway, back to my story. I was working on a paper on modern demonology, and went to one of Bruttenholm's lectures because I'd heard he was an expert. Afterwards, in typical prep-girl fashion, I approached him with some questions for my paper. But instead of answering them outright, he invited me to have dinner with him and his son.

Confused, I accepted.

And that was how I met Hellboy.

Funny how things work out sometimes.

God, I miss him.

Moving right along... I don't think Abe or any of the others know how I feel about this place. Maybe Johann. He's pretty intuitive, for a guy who's basically a soul in a suit. He comprehends a lot of things that he doesn't always speak up about. Makes me wonder what's going on in that translucent head of his.

I know Abe doesn't trust me, but Abe doesn't trust anyone except Hellboy and Liz. Liz... well, she's changed since she came back from that Agartha place. Grown up a little – well, OK, a lot – and gained some real pride and self-confidence. I think we may even be friends now.

Roger is sweet, of course. He's Roger. Oh, mental note: check in with that tailor. See if they're done with those pants.

So, yes, they're the most important people in my life right now. But, let's face it, they don't know why I'm here. They probably wonder about it sometimes. They don't know anything about me, really. They've never tried to find out, and the only one who ever really did is gone.

So now, after all this rambling, I come to the One Big Question:

Why the heck do I love these guys so much?

It's not because they accept me. At times, they barely tolerate me. And yes, maybe the BPRD is the only place where I feel at home, but it's certainly not because of them. They're like some extremely dysfunctional family; You don't have any choice about them, you just have to deal with them. But you love them anyway, because...

Well, because they're themselves.

Well, that, and maybe also because I'm a sentimental idiot. But I like to think that it's mostly the first one. 


End file.
